


A Good Yarn is Hard to Find

by Snickfic



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Crack, M/M, Minnesota Wild, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12108252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/pseuds/Snickfic
Summary: Mikael will do fucking anything to save his captain from inferior knitwear.





	A Good Yarn is Hard to Find

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleeperservice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeperservice/gifts).



> sleeperservice, this fic would absolutely not exist were it not for all your sweater picspamming. See what thou hast wrought. ;) I hope you enjoy it and it's not TOO silly for you. (But fair warning: it is really, really silly.)

Mikael thinks the sweaters are hot. He just does, okay?

“The sweaters are not hot, Granny,” Charlie says.

Whatever. Charlie’s from the US; they aren’t sweater connoisseurs here, and that’s fine. Each country has its own heritage, and part of Finland’s heritage is sweaters, and Mikael just really admires his captain’s dedication to that tradition. Mikko wears a really impressive range, too: cardigans and cable knits and color work. 

“How do you even know this stuff?” Jonas asks. 

“My mom knits,” Mikael says, which is true as far as it goes.

Of course there are other qualities about his captain that Mikael admires: Mikko’s leadership on and off the ice, the box he donates to sick kids every game, his competitive spirit.

(He once annihilated Mikael in a game of table hockey. Straight up _destroyed_ him, teeth bared in a grin. And then when it was over, he shook Mikael’s hand and shook off his praise all in one gesture. _Just luck_ , he said, apparently in earnest.

Mikael has never played Mikko again, though Mikko asked several times. The honor of that first loss was too great.)

And those other things are—okay, those are hot, too. But mostly: sweaters.

Mikko’s got a new one on tonight as the team heads out from the hotel to dinner. It’s olive green, heavily cabled, with big buttons in front and a shawl collar. If Mikael were going to be painfully honest (but only to himself), he’d admit that particular shade of green is not Mikko’s most flattering. But Mikko looks good in it anyway: it fits just right at the shoulders and the waist.

“You’re being weird again,” Charlie says.

“I’m not being weird,” Mikael says, but he drops a little further back in the group.

Mikael doesn’t spend _all_ of dinner sneaking peeks at Mikko, because then he’d be ignoring the guys he’s sitting right next to, and that would be rude. He does take the _occasional_ glance, though. Just to, you know. Admire.

Besides, Charlie keeps elbowing Mikael in the ribs, which is also pretty rude and not behavior Mikael wants to reward. In fact, Mikael really doesn’t want to walk back with Charlie, either, because Charlie keeps muttering under his breath; Mikael catches his own name once or twice. So Mikael drifts through the group, and eventually, by sheer happenstance, he ends up next to Mikko. 

Mikael struggles to think of some report from the homeland that isn’t about the weather or his mother making the first blinis of the season. Anyway it’s hard, when Mikko is right there being so distracting. They walk all the way back to the hotel, and they’re in the lobby, and still companionable silence is as far as Mikael has progressed, conversation-wise.

“That’s a nice one,” Mikael blurts finally, in desperation. Mikko blinks at him, and Mikael hurries to clarify. “Your sweater.”

“Oh.” Mikko looks down, as if to remind himself what he's wearing. Mikko is modest like that. His smile is modest, too, when he looks up again. There might be a bit of a flush in his cheeks, he is that humble. “Thank you.”

“You always have really nice ones,” Mikael says. His face feels warm. Why is he even standing here? The rest of the team is drifting towards the elevators, and Mikael could be with them, listening to Charlie mutter some more.

Mikko brightens. “You really think so?”

“Well, yeah,” Mikael says blankly. He has _eyes_.

“Some people think they’re old-fashioned.”

“That’s stupid,” Mikael says. “We live in Minnesota. What are you supposed to wear when it gets cold? What about our heritage?” 

Mikko’s brow furrows a little. Maybe he didn’t think Mikael was mature enough to care about things like that? “My mom knits,” Mikael explains. And then, because Mikko is his captain and a fellow countryman, Mikael drops his voice and says, “She taught me some, too.”

“Oh, really?” Mikko says. He sounds delighted, and Mikael feels as though he might melt into his shoes, right there in the lobby. “I’ve always wanted to learn. I have another new one I packed for the roadie. Do you want to see it?”

“Yes?” Mikael squeaks. 

Somehow Mikael follows all the way up the elevator and then down the hall to Mikko’s door. Then Mikael is standing there in his captain’s hotel room, eyes firmly fixed somewhere that isn’t Mikko’s ass as Mikko rummages around in his suitcase. 

“Aha!” Mikko says. “Just a moment, let me put it on so I can show you.” And then he strides off into the bathroom and closes the door with Mikael on the other side of it.

Mikael has seen Mikko naked many times already. He doesn’t know why Mikko needs privacy now. Mikael definitely has no reason to be imagining Mikko pulling the yellow sweater over his head, his back smooth underneath, his arms bare and muscular and covered with only the finest, palest hairs.

Mikael shifts his weight and thinks about ice instead. Very cold ice.

The bathroom door opens, and Mikko walks out, beaming. 

It’s… ugly. Despite his impeccable taste, his unerring Finnish nose for fiber craft, Mikko Koivu has somehow acquired an ugly sweater. The mustard yellow washes out his skin; the pattern hitches at the armpits and bulges at the waist. Mikael ventures nearer, careful, as if the sweater might wake up and bite him. Cautiously he pinches the material between his fingertips and confirms his suspicions: it’s acrylic. Not even good acrylic, which Mikael grudgingly admits has its place, but something cheap and terrible, like plastic straws that have been joined together and spun.

“Do you like it?” Mikko asks.

Mikael looks up into Mikko’s brightly smiling face and realizes a couple of things. First: he’s standing a lot closer to Mikko than he realized. Inappropriately close. Can-feel-Mikko’s-breath-on-his-face close. Close enough that Mikael’s eyes are crossing a little and Mikko’s smile is falling away as they stare at each other.

Second, despairingly: even in The Sweater, Mikko is still hot. 

Third: Mikael will do fucking anything to save his captain from inferior knitwear. Mikael curls his fingers under the hem. Mikko’s breath quickens and sharpens, and he lets Mikael lift it over his head without any resistance at all. 

\--

Somehow the yellow sweater becomes Mikko’s _very favorite._ Mikael has to rescue him from it every three or four days from then on – until spring, anyway.

On a balmy day in early April, Mikko comes to dinner in a t-shirt advertising some beer Mikael has never heard of. The t-shirt is the same terrible shade of mustard as the sweater, and Mikael can’t fathom how Mikko found it. “Do you like it?” Mikko asks hopefully.

And Mikael finds to his horror that he does.

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> Also Mikael teaches Mikko how to knit, and they live happily ever after.


End file.
